10,000 kilometres from home.

I’ve always considered the depths of western Canada to be adoptive mothers.

The sanctuary of delicate green and wishy-washy shades of blue coat my arms in a second skin. With every glace, the timid pines, yowling owls, and cheap Canadian beer shimmer like antiques. The sensation of comfort coaxes my inner skin as I stroll through the streets of year-old lumber and plentiful apples. A thin moss grows beneath my feet. One thing is clear, in a place like this, a smile and a warm conversation lie ahead of every path you take.

I envision the timid orchids as I sit in solitude. A ray of ticklish light shines into the cracks, forcing my eyes to blink open. The humidity conjures my cornea to suffocate into a sweet reservation, as I tear a vision away from fear. Europe is no angel, nor is the yard I sit upon.

I used to think I was superior in comparison to my eastern family. The English language and free healthcare were things I could surely boast about. In reality, I just wanted a reason to stand tall and impress those whom I have learned to endure. However, this is time is different. This time, I no longer appreciate the glances of passing people or questions about America. This time conversations about myself, my life, and my future seem shallow and unintriguing. This time I’ll be the first to ask, “Tell me about yourself, tell me about you.”

I took this decision to heart. With the help of a petite dose of timidness and a batch of new acquaintances under my belt, the summer breeze didn’t seem so cold. The street markets hollowness felt that much fuller, the decaying flowers tasted so much sweeter, and the frostbite of sunset swam through smoother than ecstasy.

The dial felt sturdy under my fingers as I heightened the volume. A stranger's music washed through me like a touch of purpose, a delicate intimacy of sound. By the end of the day, I knew the words to every single song and the rhythm of each distinctive drum. The barrier of language broke through this musical wall and fell upon my shoulders. I lifted the weight, climbed upon my feat, and shouted, “Are we gonna dance or what?”

The depressive bunker felt so vibrant. The cold, dry air ached the lungs as we paraded along the walls of bitter grime. Shots of whiskey and wine and dwindled pessimism haunted those nights like opaque shadows in the night. Our toes and fingers lost their senses as we raced into flour fields and slashed along muddied waters. We stood atop a thousand-year-old church, lifted our chins, and welcomed the glistening stars. “It’s like a home away from home,” I told my friend that night. “Thank you for an unforgettable day.”
    
The bells greeted me as I entered the little shop. Just as I had begun walking towards the ice cream freezers, a guilty sensation proceeded to disperse throughout my consciousness. The thousand hryvnias in my wallet began to shimmer brighter than gold as I suddenly realized the heft of the currency. My head jolted up and before I knew it, I had begun scanning the shop for other goods. It only took me a mere moment to realize that I could purchase anything with such a sum, a mere thirty-five dollars.

Back home, the items I owned felt ordinary and unimpressive. But here in the suburbs of Ukraine, those possessions were truly unmatched. From head to toe, I had witnessed myself become an object of fascination and intrigue. A vase of unknown origin, a victim of observations.

Though before long, I had come to attain an equal standing among my peers. For many weeks, I had restrained myself from bragging and banished myself from the lumps of fortune I had hidden within the solitary edges of my luggage. As I sat on the window frame of a multi-generational ridged house, the gloomy grey of cremated dust on the European roads tasted bittersweet. At last, my odd presence had become a comfortable piece on the contemporary chessboard.
    
The morning breeze felt mighty on the curtain of suspense. I gripped her shoulders tightly as the engine gurgled in approval. We raced across the valley of Aphrodite and fed the fiend of adrenaline on the back of the metallic beast. In the distance, a narrow river crossed our treacherous path. We shrugged our shoulders, let the rain captivate us, and jumped into its enchanted waters. The sweaty bodies we once fret shifted into a refreshingly vivid state as we hit the surface. Birthed from the depths below I howled in gratitude as the droplets of rain pitter-pattered above my head. “Is it always this beautiful?” I whispered into her ear. “Not always, but every once in a while,” she giggled, “It’s your lucky day.” That was the first time I watched the sun rise above the village.

Ukraine’s warm embrace was cavernous, carnivorous, and slightly chivalrous. Before long, the cells of my system fell into a position of contentment, security, and comfort like no other. A mere month later, they were ripping off freshly furbished flesh and revealing raw skin. Three days before departure and the tension, sharper than grief, flooded my veins. Unable to speak of the upcoming future, I cherished each moment with great acceptance and fatigue.
    
Washed up in tears of revelation and covered in summer smoke, I stepped onto the platform. I turned, sighed a shaky breath, and walked along the cement. “I’ll take those bags,” a middle-aged man said, before throwing my suitcase into the bus. Heart pounding and tears pouring out the sockets of my expressionless stare, I wished the land goodbye. Slowly rising from the moonlit ashes, the morning sun beckoned luminous streaks and kissed my forehead warm. As I took a seat on the rear end of the underworld, another wave of ambient shock immersed me.
 
I felt the peace behold me, immerse me, and move through me. I mustn’t panic, I told myself, my true home was just a 10,000-kilometre voyage away.

6/2/23